A Relentless Fire
by Takai No Hibiki
Summary: SYOT Closed. Welcome to the 99th Hunger Games! Nearly twenty-five years after the failure of the last rebellion, a new enemy from beyond the seas has appeared before Panem. And this time, circuses and bread alone may not be enough to stop them. What do this year's tributes have to do with it? *NEW Prologue


**A Relentless Fire**

_A rebellion is made out of more than mere courage. What it requires is the conviction of the few to sacrifice everything - friends and family, morals and ideals, and even the lives of the innocent - for victory. _

_Nearly twenty-five years after the failure of the last rebellion, a new enemy has appeared before Panem. And this time, circuses and bread alone may not be enough to stop them. _

_The Union, an alliance of the world powers outside of North America, has waged war against the country of Panem, which maintains a harsh economic monopoly on the resources of the western hemisphere._

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**Author's Note: **I warn readers in advance that the narrative style of this story will be drastically different from other SYOTs, including my own. Due to the absolutely massive size and scope of this world, I cannot guarantee that every (or even a majority of the) submitted characters will play a pivotal role or be introduced in a swift manner. If you have an issue with this, you can withdraw your character from the story at any time before the submission period ends or not submit your character. I hope that you can enjoy this difficult journey with me and look forward to hearing your responses.

**This is an updated prologue.** Since some people seem to think the other one is too confusing.

**I am also looking for a beta reader.** Mostly to bounce ideas off of and consult with about plot related things. This story is going to be fairly long, so I'm looking for someone with a relatively fast response time. PM me if you are interested.

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**Prologue**

_The lead weight of a gun, the fizzle of the intercom close to his ear, the squelch of the mud beneath his boots; he was hyperaware of everything around him, even of the blood pumping furiously through his chest. Just hours ago he stood no more than five miles away, right hand pressed against the steady beat of his heart, and marched onto the battlefield with a salute and a shout. He simply prayed that these past five years of training would stay with him through till the end._

_Now there was hardly time to breathe, let alone run and sort through training drills and snippets of advice their commanding officers and instructors gave them. The mechanical reloading of his gun required no attention, and he was firing before his mind even registered that his last shot had hit something square in the chest._

_It was his first experience on the battlefield, on a rainy day just shy of his nineteenth birthday, and around him everyone was falling to pieces. Some literally, others holding back the screams to focus on living and surviving, and Luka concentrated solely on the distant horizon in front of them with dry, bleeding lips and hands that trembled, unknowingly, from the cold._

_Unlike the common foot soldiers, he wasn't on the frontlines. Being a recent graduate of the most prestigious military academy in the world had its advantages, but most common men who had seen even a lick of battle would have said with bitter sneers that all ranking officers were mere babies in the face of war. Long ago, Luka probably believed them, way before he decided to enroll in the academy himself._

_He still didn't know if they were right. Something had gone wrong on the frontlines, a thick and heavy fog settling over the area and casting it in a haze of pinkish mist. He was fighting now and so were a handful of people he had known in the academy, people who had also graduated with top marks and a hopeful future._

_If they survived their first battle, they would rise in the ranks. For someone who, five years ago, had never even considered that he would be in the army, a situation like this was almost unreal. Of course, they ran through plenty of simulations at school, but none of them could account for the cold and the fatigue and the very real possibility of death._

_Other than those factors, Luka had to admit that not much was different from the simulations. Shooting the far-off enemy was different than stabbing another person to death or using all of your weight to strangle him. The rain was wet and cold; it obscured his vision and soaked through his already weighty clothes. But for a kid who had grown up scouring the streets, returning home only to sleep, it was easy to retreat into that small place in his mind where he could no longer feel the elements._

_Water and mud splashed onto his face as others trampled ahead and the fireworks of gunfire lit the misty air aflame. The glare blinded him for a moment, and in that moment more water and mud splattered against him, warm and thick. When he opened his eyes he saw flecks of black in the thin, lightweight, visor he wore to keep the rain and dirt from his eyes._

_He spared a precious few seconds to wipe it away, realizing after the droplets smeared against the tinted lenses that it was not mud, but the blood of some comrade of his who was lying in a struggling heap near his feet. His mind, now on autopilot, flew through memories of his academy days in the recent past and pulled up images and flashes of voices as he pressed his finger against the trigger again, again, and again._

_Dietrich Holt, originally from the northern bloc of the Republic, enlisted in the Federation's armed forces upon graduation. Always a bit of a goof, but intelligent enough to know how to mediate a conflict, he graduated just a few ranks lower than Luka. He was the top of the class in marksmanship, had even given Luka a few pointers if they were in at the firing range at the same time._

_It wasn't the first time he had seen a corpse. It was the first time it had been someone he knew, however. It was someone he had spoken to before, not a friend but a friendly enough acquaintance. He was sure that others were gone by now, too, perhaps cold and dead on a different battlefield kilometers away but dead nonetheless._

_But today it was Dietrich at his feet and Dietrich's blood on his face._

_Because he didn't want to die like the others, because he was selfish and wanted to win, Luka didn't allow himself to snap in the middle of the battle. He wiped the blood from his face and stepped over Dietrich's body, telling himself that in war there were sacrifices._

_Like pawns on a chessboard, there were times when sacrifices had to be made in order to win. Like the game the students from the League taught him, to sacrifice one piece and gain a territory was necessary._

_War wasn't really about killing, but about making the right sacrifices. Until he saw the outcome of this one, Luka wouldn't really know if these people had died here today for a purpose or if their lives had just been carelessly tossed aside, but by thinking this he was able to make it through the next five hours of endless combat._

_When the sky broke over the ceasefire, their commanding officer clapped a thick hand over his shoulder and gave him a good shake and the promotion he had wanted._

Luka knew that six years ago everyone who took part in that battle had lost a significant piece of what they were with its conclusion. His comrades who had died that day and the ones who died the next day had given their lives for a border conflict that was never resolved. As he was swept up by the onslaught of funerals and processions and the new responsibilities of his rank, he had failed to notice that he, too, had lost something in those days.

Six years later and he was leaving it up to Mikhail to tell the new recruits what was the most important thing to keep in the face of battle, the things they absolutely couldn't lose. Luka himself still never found that answer.

He rubbed his gloved hands together, trying to generate a bit of heat in the chilled morning air. The ground beneath him was torn asunder, shredded by bullets and bombs. Little by little they were making progress, but the scars upon this land had happened weeks ago. He knew exactly where their troops were, of course, and what they had fought here for.

He heard Mikhail cursing in his heavy, thick accent that sounded more German than Russian before the older man appeared from the fog. He gave Luka, technically his commanding officer despite his age, a lazy salute and leaned against a nearby tree. The haze masked the curls of smoke issuing from the cigarette in his lips perfectly.

Luka gave him a nod and went about rubbing his hands together absently. It wasn't alright to do it in front of the troops, but they were all still sleeping and Mikhail had been here since Luka arrived fresh out of Liechten Academy, so rules and regulations could be thrown by the wayside for now.

"Y'know what we're fighting for this time?" the older man breathed. Sometimes breathing out here was hard, but in the quiet of the morning his words came out softly against the air.

"Yeah," Luka said. At this time of day all they could hear were birds twittering in the treetops and the sounds of creatures unfamiliar to them in the distance. "'The Union has declared war upon Panem for acts of aggression on neutral ground and the violation of human rights.' Not that you seem satisfied."

Mikhail barked, his laughter trailing off as he took another puff and exhaled slowly into the fog. "War's a funny business, because it _is _a business. Me, I want to protect my country, the country that my family lives in. It's 'cause we fight that they can live their lives, so even though war sucks I'll keep on going like this."

Luka watched him crush the cigarette underfoot and sighed as he pushed himself away from the tree trunk he was leaning against. Halfway across the camp was their loosely constructed command center, but this early in the morning the radios were silent. They'd start up again in about an hour, and then they would have to listen carefully for news of the shipment they were deployed to receive and protect.

He spared the older man a brief, wry smirk. "No regard for the enemy nation works its way into your equation, does it? Despite what you tell the recruits, that they're fighting for the good of the world. 'S got nothing to do with that, huh?"

"Not everyone can be a saint," Mikhail shook his head with the same wide, friendly grin he gave everyone he met. He shrugged as he said it, tossing his hands in the air. "You do what you can. And what you can't manage, you've gotta give up sometimes. No better or different than you, mister commander."

This time they didn't have many recruits among them and even fewer fresh out of the academy, so they could indulge themselves in talks like this every now and again, when no one in his or her right mind would be awake and spying on their commanding officers. The bulky machines in the command center flickered intermittently as they stepped underneath the shelter of the tent, a gentle mechanical hum the only other presence around them.

"With the reinforcements, we should be ready in a fortnight, perhaps a bit sooner if all moves according to plan. In the very likely case that it does not, we'll move to the next pattern," Luka recited as if he never even heard Mikhail's words. "They'll be accompanied by their own commander, apparently."

"Who knows what monsters they're sending 'tis time," the older man mused. "No telling what the League's hiding from the world or what monster recruits the 'public's trained up this time. Last shipment they sent us that damn kid and that was bad enough."

Luka would have rolled his eyes if he didn't hear the rustle of soldiers stirring from their bedrolls around the camp. "You make it sound like we're the only sane ones," he commented as his thoughts traveled to 'that damn kid' as Mikhail called him.

He was one of the many mercenaries hired by the Republic and barely knew the common language, but his proficiency in hand-to-hand combat was second to none. Mikhail must have still been bitter at being beat by a kid not even out of his teenage years yet. Luka let him ramble about the dark-haired boy whose golden tan skin was riddled with pale, jagged scars and let out a deep sigh.

A long, long time ago all the nations of the world closed their doors to each other and lived in utter isolation for nearly twenty years. That decade and a half was the closest they had ever come to world peace. Sometimes Luka couldn't help but think that it should have stayed that way.

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**Rules for Submission (Submission period is almost over!)**

_I am only taking submissions by PM and__ will reserve spots for up to one (1) week._

_You may submit as many characters as you desire. I do not accept mary-sue characters or cardboard cutouts of canon characters._

_By submitting your character, you give me the right to do what I please with your character. Until the submission period ends and this description goes away, you may still retract your character from the story at any given time._

_The submission forms are on my profile, as is the list of current tributes/characters in the story._

_I am also taking some submissions for personnel living in the Union. See my profile for more info on the submission forms and what type of characters you can submit. The "guidebook" to this world has moved to my profile, as well, since it is not a formal chapter._

_A final word: This is my first foray into the study of war and violence involving characters from multiple perspectives. I'll try to keep it as realistic as possible. I encourage communication between readers and the writer, so I look forward to your responses._


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